


Just Another Five Minutes?

by To_Shiki



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Hair Brushing, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Illya can carry his whole team if need be, Living pillows are the best pillows, No Sex, Peril's back is going to complain when he gets up, Post-Mission, Solo Whump, Sorry guys, and wait for the prompts, if you type in 'no sex', those poor pianos!, you get 'piano sex'.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 11:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11713965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/To_Shiki/pseuds/To_Shiki
Summary: Napoleon Solo's not having a good day at the end of a mission.  But he has Gaby and Illya to look out for him.





	Just Another Five Minutes?

 

When he wakes the world around him is shaking and deafening from the loud retorts of gunfire. His body aches bone-deep as fire courses through his veins. It’s too much effort to open his eyes to see _why_ his arm hurts worst of all. Too much work to ask Peril, the only one on their little team capable of carrying him like a child, to slow down so he doesn’t vomit over his no doubt already ruined suit. A stumble and sudden lurch from his rescuer sends him slipping back into peaceful darkness.

When he wakes the world has stopped it’s shaking. Gunfire has been traded for the harsh beeping and hissing of machinery. Strong arms have given way to a thin mattress and flimsy linens. The only saving grace shining through the searing heat running rampant within him are the cool fingers brushing over his forehead, his cheeks, combing back sweat-dampened hair. They’re soon joined by a deep rumble of a voice reading from the newspaper of their current location. He wants to call out to them but a steady stream of artic water rushes from limbs straight to his brain.

They wouldn’t be able to hear him speak anyways over the sudden shrillness of the machines.

A third awakening is not his luck. He’s barely conscious for the great, wet coughs bruising his lungs and ribs.

Breathing’s more of a hassle than he remembers. His lungs feel heavy. Something thick and slimy’s blocking his throat each time he tries to exhale. Short, gurgling gasps are all his lungs are able to produce.

Thankfully, after an eternity of someone propping him up to help him breathe, a sharp pinprick jabs through the swirling reds and exploding whites he sees behind closed eyelids. Thankfully, whatever the now _burning_ liquid running through his veins is helps quiet his breathing.

For a few seconds he can breathe past the weight in his lungs. A deep rumble under his ear heralds the beginning of more problems.

A full minute of harsh hacking up whatever gunk had collected in his lungs results in him being a sweaty, passed out mess.

~^~

The warm body holding him close is still there when he wakes for a fourth time. This time, instead of Peril merely holding him up, he’s settled behind him on the bed, Napoleon’s smaller frame bracketed by long legs.

Blinking away the blurriness of sleep, Solo manages a weak, “w’s tha?” His voice is barely audible and the roughness of his throat warns it’d be best if he _didn’t_ try to clear it.

“It is newspaper,” comes Illya’s soft response. The newspaper is held in front of both of them, the Russian reading it over Solo’s shoulder as the man slept. “Is article about how we save the day, as you Americans like to say.”

Napoleon squints fuzzily at the small print, not bothering to dislodge his place at Illya’s chest. “from w’ere?”

“Spain.”

The quiet rustle as pages are turned fill the room as Solo slowly processes what was said. They’d been in Russia last he knew. Helping to free two fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents who’d been captured due to the rookie partner’s mistake.

“sp’in?”

“Mmhmm,” vibrates against his ear as his partner agrees. “If you had your glasses you would know this.” The tone is light and teasing, no hint at the worry that had clawed at both the Russian and German agents for the past week.

The warmth surrounding him has Napoleon slowly fading back to a welcoming sleep. The steady rise and fall of his living pillow easily causes him to mimic it, lungs no longer struggling and throat clear of mucus.

“spa’nisssh?” he repeats unaware as he slips closer to oblivion.

“Sí. Is what they speak in Spain, Cowboy.” One hand leaves the newspaper to gently cover Solo’s eyes. The sudden darkness pushes him further down.

The opening of a door faintly reaches Solo’s ears. A whispered, “how is he?” is the last thing he hears.

~^~

Muted sunlight greets him the next time he opens his eyes. His human pillow is gone, replaced by the flat standard issue hospital version. There are thin, calloused fingers running through this hair. Blunt nails occasionally scratch lightly at his scalp. Finger tips pressing soothingly at times.

“knew you loved my hair,” Solo mutters. He gathers enough strength to turn his head enough to see Gaby sitting next to his bed.

“I love it more when it’s not slicked back,” she whispers back. “So nice and soft like this.” Her thumb presses in at his temple, helping ease the lingering pain and earning a thankful moan. “And you love that I play with your hair.”

“Where’s Peril? I hate to admit it but he makes for a much better pillow than the one I have now.” His voice tries to give up at the end, too dry from little use.

Gaby helps him sip some cool water as she answers. “He’s finally sleeping.” A nod to the tiny sofa across from Solo’s bed shows the giant of a man indeed asleep _somehow_ with a floppy sunhat over his eyes to block out the light.

“So it’s just you and me now, huh? Whatever shall we do to pass the time, my beautiful lady?” Even as exhausted as all this activity has been, Solo still has enough energy within him to wiggle his eyebrows at her suggestively.

The end result is being lightly laughed at by an ex-East German cop shop girl and a disgruntled snort coming from the sofa.

“I take it that means you won’t join me in bed?” Napoleon goes for the kicked puppy eyes. They turn out more like sleepy puppy eyes, but Gaby won’t be so cruel as to tell him. This time.

“You are correct, Mr. Important Suit.” She goes back to petting his hair. The other hand rests lightly over the stab wound on his arm. The one that caused this whole mess. ‘Damned KGB and their poisons,’ she thinks bitterly once Solo closed his eyes.

“Just another five minutes?” come the hopeful whisper.

She caves. “All right, Napoleon. Five more minutes.”

All three grin as she gently climbs up next to him. They know his ‘five minutes.’   As he carefully turns so she can cradle him against her chest, the steady _thump thump_ of her heart soothing, they know she won’t let go until Illya demands his turn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe I got the idea for this while watching the movie at a 24 hour spa? Somehow getting fresh fruit and hot tea served to me while getting my feet massaged while watching the movie had me picturing Solo getting doted on. *shrugs* Who knew?


End file.
